


Like Rain

by missazrael



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Jaws canon, Loneliness, M/M, Modern Era, Pining, Self-Doubt, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 12:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15242958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missazrael/pseuds/missazrael
Summary: You're new in town, and you see him from across the room, and that's when everything changes.This is a short little fic that's a part of the greaterJawscanon, although you don't have to read Jaws to enjoy it.  It takes place many years before the main storyline, and features a cameo (of sorts) by one of the main characters.But mostly it's a story about Erwin and Mike.





	Like Rain

You’ll never forget the first time you see him.

You’re at a church social, something you don’t really want to attend but were driven to by loneliness, and some of the older women are milling around you, peppering you with questions that sound innocent but are really fact-finding missions. You’re someone new in a town that rarely gets new people, a potential match for their daughters, and you can’t tell them that that will never happen, that you’d be a terrible match for any of their daughters, that they’d be better off accosting the good old boys milling around a radio tuned to a baseball game and shooting you dirty looks. But you can’t tell them that, and so you smile and suffer their questions as politely as you can, although you draw the line when a particularly bold one asks you to dinner.

You’re sorry, you say, you have to work.

And what’s your work, Mr. Zacharius?

Carpentry.

Ah. They all nod and cluck amongst themselves. Carpentry; just like Jesus. Good, solid work, a _man’s_ job. Nothing questionable about carpenters.

If they only knew. If they only knew why you’re in their little town, why you’d gotten into your truck and driven east, chasing the rising sun, your tires devouring the miles between there and here, the _there_ you can never go back to and the _here_ that you chose because it was the first place that smelled right. You’d driven into town just as the sun was rising, blazing into your tired, bleary eyes, and you’d pulled your truck to the side of the road and gotten out to stretch your back. It was there, at the side of the road, that you’d smelled it, something you’d never smelled before but you knew, just _knew_ , that this was where you were supposed to stop. A smell like rain, like trees, like the earth bursting to life. A smell completely unlike the alkaline dust from _there_ , the dry and acrid nothingness that invaded your sinuses and left you muddled and dull. 

You’d trusted your gut, and stopped, and spent a few days sleeping in the bed of your truck until you’d found work, and now you’re at a church social, with your status as a potential suitor called into question, and you’re wondering when you can make a graceful exit.

And then you see him, and everything stops.

It’s not just that he’s beautiful, although he is, with his longish, shining blond hair and eyes that, even from a distance, you can tell are a sparkling blue. It’s not just that he carries himself with an easy, casual confidence, with no swagger or machismo in his step, or that he bends and twists his narrow waist to maneuver his broad shoulders through the milling crowd, not making anyone get out of his way. It’s not just that you’ve been blindingly, gut-wrenchingly lonely, and that you’re starting to believe that there’s no one out there for you, that you’re destined to die alone and unloved, and that you’ll have to make peace with that.

It’s that he smells like rain, like trees, like life. Even from across the room, you can smell him, and you think you could keep smelling him every day for the rest of your life. 

He smells like _home_.

You start to take a step forward, with no plan, no strategy, nothing at all in your head except a desire, a want, a greed you thought had fallen asleep but is roaring awake again. You want to talk to him; you _need_ to talk to him. But then he stoops, lost to your sight for a moment, and when he straightens up, he’s got a child on his hip, a dark-haired little boy who flings his arms around his neck, and your heart sinks. A moment later, he’s joined by a woman, blonde and beautiful like him, heavily pregnant, and when he kisses her cheek, you swear you can feel your heart split in half.

How can he smell like home when he already has one?

~*~

You consider leaving the town after that, even go so far as to pack your tools back in your truck, but in the end, driven by something you can’t understand, you decide to stay. Just for a few more days. Just to find out more about _him_.

It doesn’t take long. The wheels of the small town gossip machine turn quick and exceedingly fine, and it’s not hard to find out about him.

His name is Erwin Smith, a name that rolls off the tongue, a name both simple and masculine at the same time. You learn that from the woman who cooks your breakfast at the local diner. 

He works as a janitor at the local high school. A real shame, since he had to leave school himself early on. Family issues, you know, impressed upon you with a heavy-handed wink and shrug by a gas station attendant.

He’s not married, told to you by the man who cuts your hair, and you almost jolt out of the barber’s chair when he says that. He stays in town for his sister, and his nephew. Cute little bug, ain’t he? Came in here for his first haircut, sat good as gold, didn’t cry one bit.

Yes, you agree, paying no mind as the barber cuts your hair far too short, lost in thought. A very cute kid. And another one on the way?

Oh, yes. His sister fell in with the oldest Galliard boy, and… And then the barber shakes his head, shrugs, and will say no more, which tells you more than you needed to know about the subject. You came from a small town too, and _there_ isn’t so different from _here_ , not in a lot of ways.

A lovely young man, really, when you ask the hard-edged woman behind the counter at the hardware store. Keeps that shack the Galliard boy bought in working order for his sister. One hell of a worker, real devoted to family. He was supposed to go away to college, but then his sister got in a family condition, and, well… And then that shrug again, the same as the man at the gas station, the same as your barber, the same shrug that speaks volumes without saying a word.

So he’s got commitments. Entanglements. He’s not married, and not dating anyone, but he has family issues that he can’t escape. He can’t run away with you to somewhere else, somewhere better, even if he wanted to. 

You should go. You should get back in your truck and start driving again, maybe crawl up the coast, drive until you hit somewhere where it snows. You’ve never seen snow, and if you leave now, you might be able to hit the first early flurries. You should leave behind Erwin Smith and his familial problems, leave behind his blue, blue eyes and his hair that shines in the sunshine, and seek your fortune elsewhere.

Except you know you won’t. Not when he smells like home.

~*~

You’re driving home a few days later, exhausted and sticky with sweat, worn out from a long and brutal day, your hands aching and cut in several places, when you see the truck by the side of the road. The hood is up, with someone underneath it, and you almost drive past.

But your mama raised you better than that, and with a sigh, you pull over, parking behind the downed vehicle. You have tools in the bed of your truck, and maybe you can get the other one started again with them. It’ll be some goodwill, and that kind of thing spreads in communities like this. You’ll always be an outsider, even if you stay here your entire life, but you’ll be one of the _good_ outsiders.

You get out of your truck and start loping around, wanting to see what’s under the hood and what’s going on. But then the person under the hood straightens up, peeks around it to see who’s there, and you’re assaulted with that smell of rain, of trees, of life. It’s _him_ , and all your words dry up in your throat.

Thanks for stopping, and he smiles, and your pulse starts hammering in your chest, like you’re some damn kid and the captain of the football team just chose to speak to you. He has a beautiful smile. 

Think I blew a gasket. You got anything that can fix that?

You find your words, dredge them from up from the depths of your stomach. In my truck. Back there.

And you jerk your thumb over your shoulder like an idiot, but he just smiles again.

Thanks. I’d hate to be stranded out here all night.

You nod, and turn, jerkily, to go get your toolbox.

Hey, wait a minute.

You turn back around, nearly tripping over your own foot and falling prone before him, a willing supplicant at his feet, and raise your eyebrows. Yeah?

New in town, aren’t you? Seen you around a little, but haven’t had a chance to introduce myself. 

Another smile, and then he’s offering you his hand. I’m Erwin Smith. Pleasure to meet you.

Your mouth is dry, but your palm is suddenly soaked with sweat, and you wipe it on your hip before reaching out and grasping his hand. He has a good handshake, strong and firm, confident, with his elegant, long-fingered hands.

Pleasure to meet you too.

He keeps smiling, and holding your hand, and you don’t realize for a moment why he won’t let go. He has to prompt you.

And your name is?

And you remember then, and let go of his hand and duck your head, suddenly embarrassed, and tell him your name as you’re turning again to go get your tools.

Mike. I’m Mike.

Glad to meet you, Mike. 

Glad to meet you too, Erwin.

And you go to get your tools, your nose and the palm of your hand filled with the scent of rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Tada! Hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
